


Petrichor

by FlamtaersRevenge



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Freeform, I have no regrets, No beta we die like Varrock Guards (Lvl 25), Sliske Finding His Makeup Kit From the Old Days, just for fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29058018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlamtaersRevenge/pseuds/FlamtaersRevenge
Summary: The days of the Zarosian Empire rear their ugly head.
Relationships: Oswin/Sliske
Kudos: 5





	Petrichor

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an hour hahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Entering the Empyrean Citadel, considering its current resident(s), tended to be a mixed bag. Recently, Oswin reflected, not a day went about without the place gaining some ludicrous alteration in her absence. It could be toilet paper strewn everywhere or purple paint on the walls — or, in one notable instance, an entire taxidermied dragon, which took up most of the central chamber and nearly met its end to an instinctively-hurled ice barrage. 

Other things were subtler. All faucet handles being overtightened was an exercise in frustration. So was discovering all the cooking salt in the kitchen had been switched for sugar, which somehow made Oswin’s cooking even more inedible than it already was, transcending some sort of anti-culinary boundary that had never been breached before. 

Worst of all, oddly enough, was all the furniture being moved three inches to the right. Oswin had banged her shins multiple times before she found the cause, and she’d ended up launching an end table through a window, probably landing on some hapless citizen’s house in Kandarin. 

Sliske found these little tricks to be endlessly amusing, if only for Oswin’s reactions — few of his alterations stayed around for long (save for an end table-shaped hole in one of the north casements), and the damage from the pair’s various escapades around the place probably did more damage than a few buckets of paint ever could. 

Nonetheless, Oswin was immediately on her guard when she teleported in one afternoon and found the place untouched. She leapt to the side, expecting a falling bucket of water (or something far worse); and she scanned her surroundings for anything that could indicate an incoming trick. 

Nothing. No exploding balloons, no surprise herds of cows, no armies of clockwork penguins. All was quiet, which uneased her. 

_ He’s probably messed around in the kitchen again _ , Oswin thought, stepping into the central chamber.  _ I bet he turned the cooking wine into vinegar, or replaced all the rosemary with spirit weed —  _

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden wave of odour that suddenly enveloped her. It crashed into her like a terrible cloud, a cacophony of incense and perfume and smoke and concentrated floral essences and gods-knew-what-else, all in one horrible stinking fog. 

“ _ Hhhhk! _ ” Oswin doubled over, clamping her hands over her mouth and nose. She was no stranger to strong smells, from rotting corpses to burned flesh, but somehow this particular vapour had  _ personality. _ An overwhelming, unbearable, all-consuming one.

And it could only come from a singular source. 

“Sliske!” Oswin sputtered, her eyes watering. She heard footsteps, and the smell became even stronger. Sliske entered, grinning, the air around him almost hazy with scent. 

“So nice of you to drop in!” he said. “Do you like the new cologne?”

“What,” Oswin wheezed, “the actual _fuck_?”

“Mmm? Oh, it’s just a little blast from the past, so to speak.” He grinned wider. “Guess who found his old box of cosmetics in the Shadow Realm? I haven’t used it since the empire, Mah knows how long these have sat there… I decided to see if they were still any good!”

“You  _ used _ this stuff?’ Oswin said. “On a regular basis?”

“Well, but of course!” He snapped his fingers, summoning a chair, and sat down in it. “Do you  _ know _ what Senntisten smelled like in the high summer? Sewage, cows, rancid wine, sweat, garbage… hah! Old Bunny Ears might fantasize about the glory days, but by Zaros, they  _ stunk _ . Who wouldn’t cover themselves in perfume?”

“Would mahjarrat even care?” Oswin said, managing to find an old bandage and gratefully wrapping it around her face. “I mean, couldn’t you just… I don’t know, morph into something without a nose?”

“Oh, certainly. It was all for show, you know?” Sliske gestured, his arms stretched wide. “A little status circus.  _ Si habeas, ostendas.  _ We were in the high ranks — it was only logical we fit with the custom.”

He tapped the chair’s arm. “Hmm, I may have gone a little overboard this time. Perhaps too much myrrh? Or it could be the ambergris, though I suppose the smell of processed whale vomit isn’t an appeal for  _ certain _ unrefined individuals…”

“It’s the Sixth damn Age,” Oswin muttered. “You don’t need to walk around smelling like an exploded apothecary.”

“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow. “And what if I want to?”

“Then I’m leaving.” She turned around, heading for the exit, her eyes still streaming. “When —  _ if _ I come back, you’d better go back to smelling like garbage or whatever, or I’m drop-kicking you into the fucking Abyss.”

She paused. “Please don’t tell me you actually  _ like _ the scent of all that crap, by the way.”

Sliske shrugged. “Oh, go off and do whatever. See if I care! I’ll find someone else who appreciates my taste in luxury cosmetics. Don’t ever say I didn’t make an effort for you.”

Oswin rolled her eyes. “Good damn luck with that.” With that, she teleported off the platform, hoping that the lingering smell wouldn’t cling to her clothes.

* * *

When Oswin returned later that night, she was speaking wet; Burthorpe’s usual light drizzle had evolved into a deluge, and rainwater pooled around at her feet as she stood, shivering slightly. 

No sign of Sliske. She took a cautious sniff. Not even a whiff of him. She wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or a bad sign. 

She sighed, trudging towards the bathroom. She might have to wrestle with the faucets, but if she could get a hot shower in —

“Do you know how long it takes,” a voice behind her said, “to wash off six-thousand-year-old essential oils?”

Oswin didn’t move. “Oh, quit whining.”

“Hmph.” She felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist, and she didn’t protest, if only for the heat that radiated behind her and chased the chill from her bones. “Burthorpe?”

“Yeah. Old Rancour needed a favour.” She settled her back against him, letting the mahjarrat warm her body through. “Downpour hit me before I could teleport. Sorry for the water on the floor.”

“I’ll have to charge you for damages, then,” Sliske said. “Irreparable. My insurance will never cover it. I’ll have to get the whole place reappraised.”

She felt his nose press into her still-damp hair, breathing it in deeply. Oswin smiled bemusedly. 

“What, do you like the smell of wet druid?” she quipped. “How niche of you.”

“And presumptuous of you,” Sliske murmured. “You smell like the rain.”

Oswin didn’t reply. The only sound in the whole place was the steady  _ plink plink plink _ of water dripping off of her armour; though she wondered if she could hear the distant rumble of thunder in the clouds miles below them. 

“The Kharidian used to be green,” Sliske said. “Nothing but lush grassland, before Tumeken fried everything to a crisp. When Iccy brought us here from Frenesake, that was the first thing everyone noticed — the rain that wasn’t sulfur or ash.”

Oswin still didn’t reply. They both stood, Oswin still soaking wet, for a time; eventually, she pulled away, a half-grin etched on her face. 

“You do know it rains all the time near the mountains,” she said. “You can always go there.”

“Oh?” Sliske said. “And risk ruining the stage makeup? Getting my robes all muddy and washing the starch out of my collars? Not for the world, my dear.”

“Then I’m finding your stupid box of perfumes,” Oswin replied, “and drop-kicking them into the fucking Abyss.”

“Not if I let you!” he shouted. But Oswin was already gone — bolting off to some other part of the citadel, shrieking with laughter. Sliske shook his head. 

“Uncultured ruffian,” he muttered. Nonetheless, he grinned, casting a cursory glance out the window — and to the still-storming clouds far below the citadel — before he snapped his fingers, disappearing in pursuit.


End file.
